“The Belgian girl said her baby had been born a week ago, and that they were going to call it Alfred,” I told him. He met my eyes. I was grinning. He began to grin, too. “Good luck to her,” he said. “Best of luck,” said I. “And what did you tell _her_?” he asked. “That the baby belonged to the old mother--that it was brother to your girl, who was writing to you as a friend of the family.” He stood smiling, with the long, subtle malice of a farmer. “And did she take it in?” he asked. “As much as she took anything else.” He stood grinning fixedly. Then he broke into a short laugh. “Good for _her_!” he exclaimed cryptically. And then he laughed aloud once more, evidently feeling he had won a big move in his contest with his wife. “What about the other woman?” I asked. “Who?” “Elise.” “Oh”--he shifted uneasily--“she was all right------” “You'll be getting back to her,” I said. He looked at me. Then he made a grimace with his mouth. “Not me,” he said. “Back your life it's a plant.” “You don't think the _cher petit bébé_ is a little Alfred?” “It might be,” he said. “Only might?” “Yes--an' there's lots of mites in a pound of cheese.” He laughed boisterously but uneasily. “What did she say, exactly?” he asked. I began to repeat, as well as I could, the phrases of the letter: “Mon cher Alfred,--Figure-toi comme je suis désolée----” He listened with some confusion. When I had finished all I could remember, he said: “They know how to pitch you out a letter, those Belgian lasses.” “Practice,” said I. “They get plenty,” he said. There was a pause. “Oh well,” he said. “I've never got that letter, anyhow.” The wind blew fine and keen, in the sunshine, across the snow. I blew my nose and prepared to depart. “And _she_ doesn't know anything?” he continued, jerking his head up the hill in the direction of Tible. “She knows nothing but what I've said--that is, if she really burnt the letter.” “I believe she burnt it,” he said, “for spite. She's a little devil, she is. But I shall have it out with her.” His jaw was stubborn and sullen. Then suddenly he turned to me with a new note. “Why?” he said. “Why didn't you wring that b---- peacock's neck--that b----Joey?” “Why?” I said. “What for?” “I hate the brute,” he said. “I let fly at him the night I got back----” I laughed. He stood and mused. “Poor little Elise,” he murmured. “Was she small--petite?” I asked. He jerked up his head. “No,” he said. “Rather tall.” “Taller than your wife, I suppose.” Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud burst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again. “God, it's a knockout!” he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at ease, one foot out, his hands in his breeches pocket, in front of him, his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man. “But I'll do that blasted Joey in----” he mused, I ran down the hill, shouting also with laughter.